


Magic Theory

by theoxfordcommando



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Implied Past Non-Con, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 20:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10316657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoxfordcommando/pseuds/theoxfordcommando
Summary: "Magic has always possessed a physical presence. There is a weight that it carries, an energy that is palpable if only one knows where and when to look.Those born with the ability to channel magic would tell you that the feeling of it rushing through your veins is indescribable. And if they did attempt to explain it, no two mages would paint it in the same way. This is because the potency and essence of the magic itself is tied inextricably to the one who casts it."Fenris' musings on magic and mages.





	

Magic has always possessed a physical presence. There is a weight that it carries, an energy that is palpable if only one knows where and when to look.   
Those born with the ability to channel magic would tell you that the feeling of it rushing through your veins is indescribable. And if they did attempt to explain it, no two mages would paint it in the same way. This is because the potency and essence of the magic itself is tied inextricably to the one who casts it. 

Fenris could feel magic. The lyrium lines carved into his skin were always aware of its presence -invasive, prickling against his skin, ever-sensitive. Being near active magic sent sensation pulsing through the lines of his brands; direct contact with it was something else entirely. 

Until Kirkwall, he had never had the luxury to notice the difference between the magics of mages.   
During his days in Tevinter, Danarius had kept him firmly by his side and it was rare that another mage was allowed too close to him. Of course there were ‘select’ circumstances, but he was always kept on a short leash.   
He had been surrounded by mages in the early days; his master was eager to show off his prized experiment. But the memories of those days are patchy at best, clouded by pain and fear. He had awoken only to know nothing but the steady thrum of pain, muscle-deep and omnipresent.   
No, it was Kirkwall where Fenris first learned he could tell the difference between the energy of individual mages. The longer he spent around one, the more attuned he became to their presence. Each was distinct, and he could separate them out, whether at a quiet table in the Hanged Man or in the heat of battle. And it was surreal in a way. To think that, had events unfolded differently, the touch of Danarius’ magic would be the only one he’d ever know.

Danarius’ magic was a sickly thing. Cold and cruel like the man himself.   
For years it had been all Fenris had ever known, and there were times when it was almost reassuring. If it was not comfortable, it was at least familiar.   
Fenris knew where he stood with Danarius’ magic.   
Looking back on those days filled Fenris with a nauseating rage. In the early days, when the pain was unreal and his mind was whirling, desperate to sift through the emptiness, Danarius had used his magic to soothe.   
Or if not to soothe, to at least distract from the harsh, gnawing agony that the lyrium brands provided.   
And Fenris could remember seeking out that touch, wishing for it with his whole being, feeling rewarded whenever Danarius so much as laid a hand on him. Disgusting.   
These days he could recall Danarius’ magic for what it was: abhorrent.

Danarius was proficient in blood magic, and his power carried with it the weight of immense loss, of careless destruction.   
The souls of those sacrificed lingered in the eddies of that power and would whisper across Fenris’ skin as he stood beside his master, pulling at the hair on the back of his neck and making his blood run cold.   
And that was when his power lay dormant. When it was activated, it was another beast entirely.   
Fenris could recall the feeling vividly. It wasn’t the sort of thing that was easily forgotten.   
Once active, those whispers of energy became sharp angry things. It was as though whatever remained of the dead’s energy, wrathful at the injustice of their demise, had taken militant form.   
Some days they were claws, gouging deep lines across the spirit while leaving no physical mark.  
Other days they were teeth, fangs dripping with virulent poison, the kind that could paralyse Fenris where he stood.   
Then there were some days, the worst days, where they were simply hands. Danarius would touch him and his energy would travel slowly along every arc, every swirl. An unwelcome caress that was inescapable, suffocating. A delicate touch, a lover’s touch, a sinister touch he could not refuse.   
It was a violation in every possible way.   
It never lasted; a small mercy. 

The mages of Kirkwall couldn’t even compare, Fenris thought somewhat hysterically. 

The girl, Merrill, she was a blood mage as well.   
Unlike Danarius, it was her own blood she used, but it still carried that sickly energy that settled like a dark weight on Fenris’s bones. There was a heaviness to blood magic, and while different from Danarius’ it was still too horribly familiar. Fenris was glad to be a front line fighter, glad that he could keep his distance from her as they faced off against the daily gang of mercenaries or slavers.   
Being too close to her when she cast sent waves of nausea cascading over him and he was always on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the remembered pain that never came.   
Merrill was not allowed to touch him.

Then there was Anders. An impossibly irritating man with less common sense than a Darktown rat.   
If Merrill was a fool, Anders was an imbecile, willingly subjecting himself to the possession of an entity he could not control.   
Unfortunately, Anders also appeared to be non-negotiable.   
Their crew was trouble, invited trouble on themselves, and any day’s outing was more than likely to end with at least a few broken bones or mild stab wounds. Hawke was no healer and neither was the blood mage.   
What Anders lacked in brains he seemed to make up for in his abilities with medicine, and was therefore invaluable to a rogue group of warriors.   
Still, Fenris avoided him whenever possible.   
But some days it was not possible, and those days Fenris spent constantly on guard. For the most part, the mage’s spellcasting was nothing unique, but the spirit energy he held within him granted him a noticeable edge. While latent, his power buzzed, an angry energy that seemed too large to be trapped inside the man’s skin. It was a static charge; if Fenris stood too close, he was shocked.   
He rarely strayed close. 

Anders’ battle energy was impressive in one way, insidious in another. When he called on the Fade, Fenris could feel the man’s energy crack and split, fracturing along well-worn fault lines to allow the spirit’s energy to shriek forth along the battlefield, barrelling through enemies with an unnatural force. Fenris had only ever been exposed to Justice himself on one occasion and it was not an experience he was keen to repeat.   
If being near a mage put him on edge, being in the presence of a creature of the Fade made Fenris twitchy and quick to lash out. Justice was pure magical energy and even just being in the same room as him was enough ignite the lyrium in Fenris’ tattoos. The spirit drew on his energy subconsciously, a pull on Fenris’ body that stretched him taut, making him liable to snap at any moment. It was a constant, silent battle, that drained Fenris emotionally and physically.

Fenris allowed himself to be subjected to Anders’ touch only in the most dire of circumstances. Ideally, it would be only life or death situations, but Hawke was a worrier and very hard to refuse, especially when he asked nicely.   
Anders’ touch was bearable, but only just. Any relief he brought by healing one of Fenris’ injuries was counteracted by the immediate shooting pain that flooded through his lyrium. It was like being struck by a bolt of lightning, liquid fire in his veins.   
He hid it well, a skill he had learned quickly as a slave in the Magisterium, and he doubted Anders had noticed. Hawke certainly hadn’t, and Hawke could never know. There was nothing that could be done.   
The touch of a mage would always be an imposition in the best cases, an invasion in most.   
It was simply a fact of Fenris’ life, and he had accepted that. 

But then there was Hawke.   
And, as seemed to be the case in everything, Hawke was different. He was not just unique, he was --implausible might be the word for it.   
He was certainly unexpected.   
There was nothing in Fenris’ (admittedly limited) experience that could have prepared him for Garrett Hawke.   
Fenris had spent long nights, when sleep eluded him and his breath sat heavy in his lungs, distracting himself by attempting to puzzle out just what it was that made Hawke’s magic so very different. And, as far as he’d been able to tell, it was simply a side effect of the man himself.  
Hawke never called on the spirits or demons of the Fade for aid. Rather, the power of the Fade flowed through him, tying his personhood inextricably to his magic.   
He was a powerful mage, there was no denying that. He was perhaps the most powerful that Fenris had ever personally encountered, but the essence of that power seemed to come from within rather than without. The amount of self control exerted by the man was, frankly, incredible. He had an understanding of magic that was founded not in pride, but in caution. And it was this that made Hawke the exception.   
The exception to everything Fenris had thought he’d known. 

Fenris had been beyond wary in the beginning.   
It was just his luck that the man whose help he’d enlisted would turn out to be an apostate mage. And yet he still fought beside Fenris that night, did not fault him for his deception. They spoke, briefly, outside the decrepit mansion of his former master.   
Fenris had asked him what he wanted.   
Survival, he had said. He was merely looking to provide for his family.   
His answer was unexpected, but it would not be the only time Hawke surprised him, far from it, in fact.   
At every turn, Hawke demonstrated an awareness of the responsibility that came with his power. He never used his magic frivolously, never turned it against anyone who didn’t pose a threat. The more time Fenris spent around him, the more impressed he became with Hawke’s character.   
And Hawke, for his part, seemed intrigued by Fenris. It was an interest Fenris allowed as he steadily found himself drawn to the man.   
The mage.   
A rich irony that was not lost on him for a second.

Time passed, dozens of battles fought side by side.   
Hawke’s battle magic was different as well. It was self-contained, in a way, never set Fenris’ teeth on edge. It was as though Hawke was making a constant, conscious effort to prevent himself from drawing on the energy housed within Fenris’ markings.   
They fought well together. Hawke was a talented caster and his lightning would arc around Fenris, fire raining down from the sky, but never close enough to singe him.   
Fenris would finish off an enemy, turn to engage the one he knew was at his back, closing in, only to find him petrified in place, a charred husk that no longer posed any threat.   
If you had told Fenris years ago that he would not only fight side by side with a mage, but also trust said mage with his life...it was absurd, unimaginable.

More time passed. And the more time they spent together, the more Fenris’ thoughts began to wander.   
He began to want.   
During long evenings in the Hanged Man, he would find his gaze drifting over to Hawke. His arms. His hands.   
Hawke had the hands of a builder, strong, scarred and calloused. They were not the hands of someone who relied on magic to make their living; they were not the hands of someone who had led an easy life.   
Hawke had been careful in the beginning not to touch Fenris. It seemed he had realised his distaste for it and he respected his boundaries. As they became closer, Hawke became less careful. And Fenris couldn’t seem to bring himself to mind.   
Hawke never pushed, but the interest was there, waiting for Fenris to realise it for what it was. It was an open invitation, a cordial invite to the kind of party Fenris had never attended and did not know how to dress for.   
It was the brush of fingertips over an armoured shoulder as he passed behind him. It was thighs pressed close together at a table that was much too small for the number of people Hawke seemed to attract. Once, it was a lock of hair brushed behind a pointed ear, before the man seemed to remember himself and apologised, blushing profusely.   
And with every touch, every look, every word he said and didn’t say, Fenris felt himself drawn ever closer to the mage.   
The pressure within him built, a curiosity that was steadily becoming a desperate need.   
Hawke was an enigma. And the night after he had killed Hadriana, everything that Fenris had been holding in exploded out of him in a violent rush.   
They had kissed before. The first time, Hawke had been hesitant. Hesitant, as though Fenris held some power over him in this. It was a hesitancy that had vanished quickly with each soft kiss they shared, though a gentleness remained that had stolen Fenris’ breath, so unexpected as it was.   
Hawke may have been the most powerful mage he had ever encountered but at the same time he was still just a man.   
A man with surprisingly soft lips and strong but careful hands. Eager to please and excellent at taking direction. 

But eventually it wasn’t enough; Fenris wanted more.  
That night was the snapping of the last cord that had been holding back the burgeoning impulse to touch, to taste, to take. Fenris had practically thrown himself at the Hawke; they hit the wall hard, colliding into each other as the force of his need overwhelmed him.  
There had been no magic between them that night; Hawke would never be so careless. But there was no background discomfort either. Hawke’s magic did not pull at Fenris the way other mages’ did. Instead, his energy seemed to wash against him in soft waves, a sensation that might have been comforting had it not been so vastly unfamiliar from anything Fenris had ever experienced.   
Hawke had met Fenris’ every frantic movement with patience and attentiveness.   
He had held him and kissed him until all of Fenris’ sharp edges had melted into the bed beneath them.   
And for that night, Fenris was well and truly happy.

It couldn’t last, of course it wouldn’t last. He had been foolish to believe anything different. That night, the memories had returned to him, dark and incomprehensible like the worst of nightmare, and as soon as he woke, they were ripped from him, mercilessly. He could feel Danarius’ touch, crawling like poison through his veins, systematically destroying everything he had shared with Hawke the night before.   
And it wasn’t real; he was safe with Hawke, he knew that.   
But he couldn’t do this.   
Not to himself.   
And certainly not to Hawke.   
Dressing quickly, he had stood by the fireplace and looked to the man he had spent the night with. In sleep, he seemed more human than Fenris had ever seen him. His expression was soft, hair falling across his eyes, arms pillowed under his head. Fenris could still feel the gentle ebb and flow of his power, warm yet subdued like the fire at his back.   
Here in the dim light of the fire, Hawke was just a man, a man unlike any Fenris had ever met, unlike any he would meet again, and Fenris knew that this was not his place.  
And so he fled.  
In the dark days that followed, there was one thought that brought him solace, even as it tormented him.   
He know knew how it felt to be touched by someone with love. To be held by someone who had no ulterior motive. To lie next to a mage and not wish to crawl out of his own skin.   
And he had turned his back on it, but for that one night, it had been his.   
And nothing could ever take that from him.

For a time, it was torturous. Hawke seemed disinclined to let Fenris simply fade from his life. Adamant that he be allowed to remain at Fenris’ side, to stay in Fenris’ life in whatever capacity Fenris would have him.   
And Fenris was not strong enough to wish him gone.   
If only he couldn’t feel Hawke’s magic whenever they shared the same space. The quiet, roiling energy of a dormant volcano that made Fenris’ heart beat faster, warming him from within.   
If only he could forget the man’s touch. The careful reverence with which he had approached Fenris, how he had made him melt.   
If only being close to him didn’t make Fenris wish desperately for a reality that could never be his. 

But more time passed, and it steadily became easier.   
Nothing essential had changed between the two of them. Their easy camaraderie had remained intact. Hawke’s stupid jokes still made him laugh, a certain casual closeness was still there. If they didn’t drift quite as close to each other as before, the added distance was negligible enough to be inconsequential.   
He could still feel the presence of Hawke’s energy, bright and controlled. Being near him still felt like standing by a fire, but it was not the wild blaze he had once imagined it to be, but a warm hearth, familiar and safe.   
For that was what Hawke had become. Safe. Familiar. Home.  
In spite of everything, and through everything, Hawke remained. A solid presence at his side, a secure presence that he could feel against the lyrium under his skin. Never pushing, never pressing, but resting, gently, an almost-embrace.

It took three years.   
Three years that the two of them spent building up a relationship stronger than steel.   
Fenris still remembered the man’s touch, could recall the memory in vivid detail of hands, magic, tenderness. Three things he would never have thought could be combined before.   
But there was no urgency, no rush.   
He hadn’t believed it at first, but Hawke was willing to wait for him, endowed with a patience that would have outshone even the most dedicated Chantry priest.   
And as for Fenris, he found he had fallen in love.

And then the three years were over.   
Danarius was dead and Fenris’ life was suddenly open before him. He had finally arrived at a destination he’d never imagined he could reach. If only he knew what the next step would be.   
And then, as always, Hawke was there.  
Hawke, the mage --the man-- that Fenris loved with a force so great it frightened him. But he was done being afraid. And he was done waiting.   
He told Hawke as much and, just like that, he was back in the man’s arms. Bodies pressed tightly together, lips and hands running over scarred and weary skin.   
And it was perfect, Hawke’s touch sending shivers down his spine, the pulse of his magic a soothing balm, reminding Fenris where he was, who he was with. And there was nowhere in the world he would rather be.

To think, that this was the way events had unfolded.   
That he could be here with Hawke, with his magic, and want for nothing. That he could love and be loved. 

That he could spend the rest of his life beside the man who had turned his whole world on its head.

**Author's Note:**

> Every thank you and my endless love to @stitchcasual and @gothic-princess-witch for being there for me <3


End file.
